eing taken to the field-hospital along with some other wounded and captured Russian officers. During the transfer he felt a little stronger and could look around, even speak.
The first words he heard on coming round came from a French convoy officer who was gabbling, 'We must stop here. The Emperor's coming soon. He'll enjoy seeing these gentlemen prisoners.'
'Too many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army - he's probably had enough of them,' said another officer.
'Yes, but look. They say this one is the chief commander of Alexander's guards,' said the first speaker, pointing to a wounded Russian officer in the white uniform of the horse guards. Bolkonsky recognized him as Prince Repnin, having met him in Petersburg society. Next to him stood another wounded horse guards officer, a boy of nineteen.
Napoleon arrived at a gallop and came to a halt.
'Which one is the senior officer?' he said, seeing the prisoners.
They named the colonel, Prince Repnin.
'Are you the commander of Emperor Alexander's horse guards regiment?' asked Napoleon.
'I was in command of a squadron,' replied Repnin.
'Your regiment did its duty honourably,' said Napoleon.
'Praise from a great general is a soldier's highest reward,' said Repnin.
'I bestow it upon you with pleasure,' said Napoleon. 'Who is this young man at your side?'
Prince Repnin named him as Lieutenant Sukhtelen.
Napoleon looked at him and said with a smile, 'He's a bit young to be meddling with us.'
'Being young doesn't stop you being brave,' said Sukhtelen with a tremor in his voice.
'A splendid answer,' said Napoleon. 'Young man, you will go far.'
Prince Andrey, who had been pushed forward under the Emperor's nose as a prize capture, could hardly have failed to attract his attention. Napoleon seemed to remember seeing him on the field, and in speaking to him he used the same epithet, 'young man', which his first sight of Bolkonsky had deposited in his memory.
'What about you, young man,' he said to him. 'How are you feeling, my dear fellow?'
Even though five minutes earlier Prince Andrey had been able to say a few words to the soldiers who were carrying him, now, with his eyes glued on Napoleon, he said nothing . . . All the things that Napoleon stood for seemed so trivial at that moment, his hero seemed so petty in his squalid vanity and triumphalism, compared with that lofty, righteous and kindly sky which he had seen and understood, that he couldn't reply. Everything in the world seemed pointless and trivial beside the solemn and serious line of thinking induced in him by weakness from loss of blood, great pain and a brush with death. Looking Napoleon straight in the eye, Prince Andrey mused on the insignificance of greatness, on the insignificance of human life, the meaning of which no one could understand, and most of all the insignificance of death, which no living person could make sense of or explain.
The Emperor, after pausing for a reply that never came, turned to go and before riding away he spoke to one the officers in command. 'I want these gentlemen well looked after and taken to my camp. Let my surgeon, Dr Larrey, see to their wounds. Au revoir, Prince Repnin,' he said and galloped away. His face was a picture of smug self-satisfaction.
The soldiers carrying Prince Andrey had come across the gold icon that Princess Marya had hung around her brother's neck and removed it, but once they had seen the Emperor's benevolent attitude to the prisoners they soon put it back again.
Prince Andrey didn't see anyone put it back, or how it was done, but suddenly there it was again on his chest outside his uniform, his icon on its delicate gold chain.
'Wouldn't it be nice,' thought Prince Andrey, as he glanced down at the little icon which his sister had hung round his neck with such feeling and reverence, 'wouldn't it be nice if everything was as clear-cut and straightforward as it seems to Marie? Wouldn't it be nice if we knew where to turn to for help in this life and what to expect when it's over, beyond the grave?'
'What happiness and peace of mind would be mine if I only could say now, "Lord have mercy upon me! . . ." But who would I be talking to? Either some indeterminate, inaccessible power, which I cannot have any contact with and cannot even put into words, the great All or Nothing,' he said to himself, 'or else that God sewn up in a little bag like Marie's icon? No, nothing is certain, nothing but the nothingness of all that we can understand, and the splendour of something we can't understand, but we know to be infinitely important!'
The stretcher was on the move again. At every jolt he was racked with unbearable pain. His temperature rose and soon he was delirious. Images of his father, his wife, his sister and his unborn son, the tenderness he had felt on the eve of battle, the petty little figure of Napoleon, and above all the lofty sky - these were the essential ideas in his raving mind. He dreamt of a quiet life and peaceful family happiness at Bald Hills. He was settling down to enjoy this happiness when suddenly that little man Napoleon turned up with his callous, shrivelled look of someone revelling in the misery of others, and then came doubts and more agony, with only the sky promising peace. By morning all his dreams had merged and melted away into the chaos and darkness of unconsciousness and oblivion, with death, according to Napoleon's surgeon, Dr Larrey, a much more likely prospect than recovery.
'He's a bad patient, all nerves and bile,' said Larrey. 'He's not going to recover.'
Prince Andrey, with all the other hopeless cases, was left behind in the care of the local inhabitants.
VOLUME II
PART I
CHAPTER 1
It was 1806, early in the year, and Nikolay Rostov was going home on leave. So was Denisov, and since he lived in Voronezh Rostov persuaded him to call in at Moscow, break his journey and stay with them. Denisov met his comrade at the last posting station but one, and drank three bottles of wine with him, after which not even the potholes on the Moscow road could keep him awake, slumped as he was at the bottom of the sledge beside Rostov, who was getting more and more impatient the nearer they came to Moscow.
'Oh, how much further is it? How much further? Oh, these awful streets, shops, bakers' signs, street lamps, sledges!' thought Rostov, when they had signed in at the city gates and entered the outskirts of Moscow.
'Denisov, we're here! Still asleep!' he kept saying, urging his body forward as though that might make the sledge go faster. Denisov made no response.
'This is the crossroads corner where Zakhar used to wait with his sledge. There he is - that's Zakhar! Still the same horse. Oh, we used to buy cakes at that little shop. Oh, do get a move on! Please!'
'Which house is it?' asked the driver.
'That one at the end, the big one. Are you blind? That's our house,' Rostov kept saying. 'Oh yes, that's our house.'
'Denisov! Denisov! We're nearly there!'
Denisov glanced up, cleared his throat and said nothing.
'Dmitry,' said Rostov to his valet on the box, 'the lights are still on at home, aren't they?'
'They certainly are. There's even a light in your papa's study.'
'They haven't gone to bed yet, have they?'
'Make sure you get my new tunic out straightaway,' he added, fingering his newly grown moustache. 'Will you get a move on!' he yelled at the driver. 'Come on, do wake up, Vaska,' he said to Denisov, whose head had drooped again. 'Oh, do get a move on! I'll give you a tip, three roubles, if you'll only move!' shouted Rostov when they were only three houses away. The horses seemed to be standing still. At long last the sledge turned right through the entry and there it all was - the familiar chipped cornice up on high, with the steps and the stone kerb down below. The sledge was still moving when he jumped out and ran up into the entrance hall. The house stood there, stolidly unwelcoming as if it hadn't the slightest interest in whoever might have arrived. There was no one there. 'Oh God! Is everything all right?' Rostov wondered, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then running on through the hall and up the familiar winding stairs. Still the same door handle, the bane of his mother's life when it got dirty, and still loose. In the hall there was a single tallow candle burning.
Old Mikhaylo was lying on his wooden chest fast asleep, but the footman, Prokofy, a man strong enough to lift the back of a carriage right off the ground, was sitting there busily making peasant shoes out of strips of selvage. He glanced towards the door as it was flung open and his expression of dozy indifference changed instantly to a mixture of joy and alarm.
'Merciful heavens! If it's not the young master!' he cried, recognizing the young count. 'It can't be! My dear, dear boy!' And Prokofy, shaking with emotion, leapt for the drawing-room door, probably wanting to announce him, but then thought better of it, came back and fell on his young master's shoulder.
'Is everyone well?' asked Rostov, withdrawing his arm.
'Yes, thank God! They're all well, thank God! Just finished supper! Oh, let me have a good look at you, your Excellency!'
'Is everything all right?'
'Oh yes, thank God. Thank God!'
Forgetting all about Denisov and not wanting them to have any warning of his arrival, Rostov flung off his fur coat and tiptoed quickly into the big, dark reception-hall. Nothing had changed - the same card tables, the same chandelier with its cover on . . . but someone had seen him, and before he could get to the drawing-room something hurtled out of a side door and overwhelmed him with a deluge of hugging and kissing. A second figure, then a third dashed in through two other doors; more hugs, more kisses, more shouts and tears of joy. Papa, Natasha, Petya . . . he couldn't tell who was who or who was where. Everybody was shouting and talking and kissing him, all at the same time. Only his mother was missing - as he suddenly noticed.
'I just didn't know . . . Nicky . . . My darling boy!'
'Here he is . . . our boy . . . my darling Kolya . . . Hasn't he changed!'
'Get some candles! Let's have some tea!'
'Oh, give me a kiss!'
'My dear darling . . . me too.'
Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mikhaylovna, Vera and the old count were all hugging him, and then the servants and the maids flocked into the room, filling it with their chatter and all their oohs and ahs.
Petya swung from his legs yelling, 'Me too!'
Natasha, who had grabbed him to herself and smothered his face with kisses, now hopped away, seized the hem of his jacket and skipped up and down on one spot like a goat, splitting their ears with her shrieks.
On every side were loving eyes, glittering tears of joy and lips hungry for kisses.
Sonya too, as red as a beetroot, clung to his arm and positively beamed at him, gazing blissfully into those eyes of his which she had missed so much. Sonya had just turned sixteen and she looked very pretty, especially at this moment of eager, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, unable to take her eyes off him, grinning and breathless. He glanced at her thankfully, but still he was looking and waiting for someone else - the old countess still hadn't appeared.
Footsteps were heard suddenly outside the door. They were so rapid that they could hardly be his mother's - but they were. In she came wearing a new dress that he hadn't seen before, obviously made while he had been away. Everybody let go of him, and he ran across to her. When they came together, she sank down on his chest, sobbing. Quite incapable of looking up, she could do nothing but press her face into the cold braiding of his hussar's jacket. Denisov, who had stolen in unnoticed, stood there looking at them and rubbing his eyes.
'Vasily Denisov, fwiend of your son,' he said, introducing himself to the count, who had turned to him with a quizzical look.
'You're most welcome. I've heard all about you,' said the count, kissing and embracing Denisov. 'Nikolay wrote to us . . . Natasha, Vera, look who's here - Denisov.'
The same blissfully happy faces turned to the tousled figure of Denisov with his black moustache and swarmed round him.
'Darling Denisov,' squealed Natasha, beside herself with delight, and she lost no time in dashing over to hug him and kiss him. Everyone was embarrassed by Natasha's behaviour. Denisov reddened too, but with a smile he took Natasha's hand and kissed it.
Denisov was conducted to the room prepared for him, while the Rostovs all gathered about their little Nikolay in the sitting-room. The old countess sat beside him, clasping him by the hand; not a minute passed without her bestowing a kiss on it. The others crowded round, drinking in every movement, every glance, every word he uttered; they couldn't take their eager and adoring eyes off him. His brother and sisters squabbled over him, struggling for the seat nearest to him and fighting for the privilege of bringing him tea, a handkerchief, a pipe.
Rostov was very happy with all the love showered upon him. But that first moment of their meeting had been sheer bliss and now his happiness seemed somehow reduced, as if more could be expected, more and more again.
Next morning, following their long drive, the new arrivals slept through until ten o'clock.
The adjoining room was one big mess - swords, bags, sabretaches, open trunks and dirty boots everywhere. Two pairs of nice clean boots with spurs had recently been put by the wall. The servants brought in wash-basins, hot shaving water and their clothes, neatly brushed. The room reeked of tobacco and young men.
'Hey, Gwishka, bwing me a pipe!' shouted Vaska Denisov in a husky voice. 'Wostov, time to get up!'
Rostov, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, lifted his head from the hot pillow, his hair all over the place.
'Why? What time is it?'
'You're late. It's nearly ten o'clock,' answered Natasha's voice, and from the next room came the rustling of starched skirts, the sound of whispering and girlish laughter. The door was open half an inch and through it came a flash of something blue, a play of ribbons, black hair and merry faces. Natasha had come along with Sonya and Petya to see if he was up yet.
'Come on Nikolay, it's time to get up!' Natasha's voice rang out through the door.
'I'm coming!'
Meanwhile in the outer room Petya had spotted the swords and seized them with the rapture small boys feel at the sight of an elder brother who is in the army. Forgetting that it was not proper for his sisters to see young men in a state of undress, he opened the bedroom door.
'Is this your sabre?' he shouted.
The girls skipped away. Denisov hid his hairy legs under the bedclothes, grimacing and appealing to his friend for help. The door admitted Petya and closed again after him. Giggling could be heard from outside.
'Nikolay, put on your dressing-gown,' cried Natasha's voice.
'Is this your sabre?' asked Petya. 'Or is it yours?' He turned with enormous respect to the black-moustached Denisov.
Rostov pulled on his shoes and stockings at great speed, put on his dressing-gown and went out. Natasha had put on one of his spurred boots and was getting into the other. Sonya had been twirling round and as he came in her skirt ballooned out and she sank down. The girls were dressed alike in new frocks of cornflower blue; they looked fresh, rosy and high-spirited. Sonya ran away, but Natasha took her brother by the arm, led him away into the sitting-room and began to talk to him. There wasn't enough time in the world for them to ask and answer questions about the thousand little details that only they would have wanted to know about. Natasha laughed at every word he said and at every word she said, not because what they said was funny but because she was so exuberant she couldn't contain her joy and it kept overflowing into laughter.
'Oh, it's wonderful! Isn't it marvellous?' she said to everything. For the first time in a year and a half, basking in the warmth of all this love radiating from Natasha, Rostov could feel his spirit and his features expanding into a childish smile, the like of which he had not smiled since he left home.
'Oh, listen,' she said, 'you're a real man now, aren't you? I'm awfully glad you're my brother.' She touched his moustache. 'I do want to know what you're like, you men. Are you like us?'
'No. Why did Sonya run away?' asked Rostov.
'Oh, that's a long story! How are you going to speak to Sonya? Will you call her "tu" or "vous" '?1
'I'll see what happens,' said Rostov.
'Call her "vous", please. I'll tell you why later.'
'No, but why?'
'Oh, all right, I'll tell you now. You know Sonya's my friend. She's such a close friend that I'd burn my arm for her. Look.' She rolled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long, thin, soft little arm well above the elbow near the shoulder (on a part which is always covered even in a ballgown).
'I did that to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it there.'
Sitting in his old school-room on the sofa with little cushions on both arms, and looking into Natasha's desperately eager eyes, Rostov was transported back into that world of family life and childhood which meant nothing to anyone else but gave him some of the sweetest pleasures in his life, where burning your arm with a ruler as a token of love didn't seem a silly thing to do - he understood it and it came as no surprise.
'Well, what about it?' he asked.
'Well, that's us, really close friends! I know the ruler and all that is stupid, but we are friends for ever. If she loves anybody, it'll be for ever. I can't understand that. I forget things so easily.'
'Well, what about it?'
'Well, you see, she loves me and you.' Natasha suddenly blushed. 'Well, you remember what happened before you went away . . . She wants you to forget all about it . . . She said I'll always love him, but let him be free. Isn't that wonderful? I think it's a noble thing to do. She's being really noble. Isn't she?' Natasha was being serious and emotional - it was clear that what she was saying now she had gone through before in tears. Rostov considered.
'I never go back on my word,' he said. 'Anyway, Sonya's so lovely - who'd be stupid enough to throw away his own happiness?' 'No, no, no,' cried Natasha. 'We've talked about that already. We knew you'd say that. But it won't do. Oh, look, if you say that - if you think you can't go back on your word - it makes it seem as if she said it all on purpose. It makes it seem as if you're being forced into marrying her, and it's all gone wrong.'
Rostov could see that it had all been well thought through by the pair of them. Sonya had